


Sometimes It Never Came

by withinandwithout



Category: True Detective
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-17 06:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2299286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withinandwithout/pseuds/withinandwithout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short pairings of song lyrics and True Detective musings. Rust-centric, but not exclusively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title of this fic is from "We Used To Wait" by Arcade Fire.

_Underneath this skin, there’s a human_  
 _Buried deep within, there’s a human_  
 _And despite everything, I’m still human_  
 _But I think I’m dying here_  
 _\- Daughter, 'Human"_

 

After all of this, it was all the same, incredibly. Same eyes. Same cheekbones. Same lips. Same skin. 

If he thought about it hard enough, it would send his mind spinning. He was the same person who had lived all of those lives. Making out with Claire in the backseat of her dad's car, feeling like a king. Holding Sophia for the first time, believing that this was going to be his life. Goading himself further and further downward as Crash, praying to a God he did not believe in that he would be dead sooner rather than later. Silent and impotent at North Shore, only a vague sense of self hanging lifelessly on his bones....

Rust knew about a lot of kinds of loss. He'd lost a parent's love, a home, a family, a crew, his mind, his way, sleep, control. And now he was still standing, not yet at the end of it. He was still, somehow, Rustin Spencer Cohle. The laws of physics still applied to him. Unbelievably, humanity still applied to him.

And so now he was patched up and yanked back onto his feet by some force that didn't know its own strength. A sense of purpose slapped on him in the form of a State CID badge. A new reality, a new life.

Now mirrors were architects of resurrection, and he struggled to face them. To be met by all of those different people who had lived inside his skin. To look square at the exterior that had been his shell for each of those lives. Facing his reflection was facing the impossible reality that he, as a single person, had been all those things, had seen it all, done it all, felt it it all and still breathed. And it could happen again. Probably would.

Marty asked - of course he did - what the nickel-sized mirror in his apartment was about, and Rust resold him the usual about meditation. The truth was more difficult to explain and easier to understand. In a mirror that size, he only took in one feature at a time. It was more manageable. One eye, which had seen all the things that still crowded his mind. His nose, which Sophia had shared and which later functioned as a conduit for his self-destruction. His mouth, which had said unbelievable things, things he never imagined that he was capable of uttering.

He took in one piece of himself at a time, worked on coming to terms with this life, challenging all the pasts that swam inside every inch of him. He tried to live by the rules, not do anything that he would want to run from. He was patient and he took his time on each part. He hoped that eventually he could look at himself - his whole self - and not feel afraid of whoever looked back.


	2. Chapter 2

_He looked just like you'd want him to_  
 _Some kind of slick chrome American prince_  
 _A blue jean serenade_  
 _Moon River, what'd you do to me?_  
 _-The Killers, 'A Dustland Fairytale"_

 

Maggie had always loved cowboys. Maybe because she had never known one. 

She'd never thought herself to be the "love at first sight" type, but it was something like that the first time she and Marty had locked eyes.

She wasn't a southern girl, at least not originally. Her parents had relocated to Louisiana during her sophomore year of high school. Sometimes she still resented the move. She used to go to school every day feeling like she'd been taken from her natural habitat and put in a cage. She knew the world was much bigger than this town. Knew that there was much more. No one else there seemed to possess this knowledge. Or care.

She was careful not to a southern accent creep into her voice, made only the most necessary compromises to fit in.

Later on, she had never really wanted to settle in rural Louisiana. She was smart, ambitious, and she knew she could do well if she headed to a city, if she focused on studying medicine. But then she met Marty.

It was outside a bar one summer night. He was all cool smiles and confidence, an American ease about him and a devil-may-care attitude. The smell of denim, dust, whisky. And maybe Maggie had finally gone native, because Marty Hart was wearing a belt buckle that classified him as an "all around cowboy" and that didn't put her off. She was surprised when he said he wanted to be a cop. When she asked him why, he'd simply said "'cause I wanna do something good with my life," as though that in itself was honorable.

Early on, she didn't think she'd given up anything for him. She'd wanted to stay with him. She'd wanted kids with him. She'd wanted a nice home with him. And anyway, she told herself, she could still keep her hand in at the hospital. But as the years passed, she found herself imagining a different life, one that she could've had if she hadn't met Marty. One where she wasn't just a nurse. One where she lived in a big apartment in somewhere like New York. 

But then Marty would slide under the covers next to her and she wouldn't let herself ask why he was so late again. There was still the smell of dust and whisky, and she knew she was home and she was not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_What is it that calls to us?_  
 _Why must we pray screaming?_  
 _Why must not death be redefined?_  
 _We shut our eyes, we stretch out our arms_  
 _And whirl on a pane of glass_  
 _An asphyxiation, affix on anything_  
 _The line of life, the limb of a tree, the hands of he_  
 _And the promise that she is blessed among women_  
 _\- Patti Smith, 'Dancing Barefoot'_ _  
_

If they had known about the rabbit hole that awaited them, Marty would have stopped for coffee on the way. Rust would have driven twice as fast. 

Marty picked at his teeth as he ducked under the tape. Eight years State CID, couldn't be anything he hadn't seen before. But then the kneeling form emerged as they walked around the tree, and Marty was sent back to Day 1. He felt no remorse about sending Rust in to get a closer look when Rust offered the gloves. He saw the antlers and that alone was enough.

Marty heard his own voice giving instructions, going through the motions, following protocol, but he gradually realized that they'd caught something that went deeper, darker than anything he could have previously imagined. Marty felt increasingly distant from himself, like he was there, but somehow wasn't. _Why this, why now_ , and he didn't even know what his partner was made of yet, wasn't sure about him at all. The files were classified, nothing to go on. There was something both spooky and reassuring about Rust's clinical demeanor as he looked death in the face. And if Rust didn't flinch, he sure as shit wasn't going to either. 

"Okay, tell me what you see."

There were times when Marty thought being a detective wasn't employment; it was punishment. This was one of those times. Protocol could only go so far. Work regulations could not apply. He loosened his tie.

\----

Rust knew as soon as they got there - could taste it - that this was no ordinary 419. Confirmed when they saw her. In deference to Marty's rank, Rust held out the gloves, but he felt a dim sense of relief when Marty told him to go ahead. It was January 3rd, and Rust was already in hell, nothing could touch him. There was no reason for Marty to step further into the fire than he had to. Rust approached the woman with his ledger under his arm and knew he was looking at a ghost, put there especially for him. 

Her arms were outstretched, hands as all hands are in prayer: bound in useless servitude. Only this time, the binds were visible; not even the pope, were he there, could argue their existence (although, thought Rust, he would probably try, whoever he was). She didn't die in prayer, unless she had screamed one as a desperate last resort. Rather, she was positioned in death, knelt in reverence to God, to her killer, to the tree above her, to Rust and Marty. Head bent as though receiving a blessing. Stabbed. Crowned. Blindfolded, either too early or too late. Rust didn't know until later that she'd been strangled. 

And Rust didn't know yet - not explicitly - that time is a flat circle, but the spiral on the girl's back told him one thing, in a coarse whisper: this will happen again. 

He passed that along to Marty, and when Marty questioned it, Rust mechanically recited the relevant passages from his homicide books. Marty had never heard him string so many words together before, hadn't seen his interest peaked until now. And as uncomfortable as he was, Marty noticed vaguely that this was the first time he and Rust had engaged in anything that approached a conversation. Wanting to capitalize on this and force normalcy back into his mind, Marty went ahead and asked Rust to come over for dinner. It'd make Maggie happy, at least. Rust said alright. Duty done. Result yielded.

After that, Rust pretended to work the grid search in the surrounding canefields. Mostly, he just needed to walk away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much to everyone who has left kudos and comments!
> 
> Long update here. Everything that is italicized, apart from the Corinthians quotation, is from "The Mercy Seat" by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.
> 
> Warnings for a reference to suicide.

_It all began when they took me from my home_  
 _And put me in Dead Row_  
 _Of which I am nearly wholly innocent, you know_  
 _And I'll say it again:_  
 _I am not afraid to die_   

Rust watched his own transfer to North Shore with a sense of detachment. There was no doubt in his mind that he belonged at a psychiatric institution. He was tasting colors, seeing people burst into flame without reason or warning, and he had just killed three men. If anyone should be in North Shore, it was him. He didn't have anywhere else to go, anyway. 

 _I began to warm and chill_  
 _To objects and their fields_  
 _A ragged cup, a twisted mop_  
 _The face of Jesus in my soup_  
 _Those sinister dinner deals_  
 _The meal trolley's wicked wheels_  
 _A hooked bone rising from my food_  
 _All things either good or ungood_   _  
_

He was brought to North Shore in a humid, evil June. The ceiling fans turned lazily, ineffective at best. There was no way to breathe, no relief. Sweat pooled through his wife beater no matter how still he kept. He couldn't look at the food and sometimes he couldn't remember how long he'd been Crash. His ribs ached endlessly and kept him pinned down.

Withdrawal set in and North Shore swallowed him whole. The white walls hugged him too tightly, the smallest sounds felt like explosions. His skin was freezing and he was burning inside. The nurses tried to help, but he couldn't stand to be touched and no matter what they said to him, he heard them asking "what have you done, what have you done?" 

When the storm passed, Rust was left barely standing, swaying and blurred. He was told it was progress, but he felt only a dead weight, its fishhooks in his heart and his soul, and a radio silence in his head that he knew could not last.

They brought him to the therapy sessions, the group activities, the outdoor exercises. For the most part, Rust simply let them parade his corpse around. He spent his time silently fuming at every attempt to round out his sharp edges. Some days he would try to heal, but most days he didn't. He knew there was no help for him, no hope for a well-adjusted life. He also knew that he would unravel with the pull of a thread, and he wasn't about to take the risk.

And anyway, he had his own problems to worry about. Flies were coming out of his fingertips and there was a cat in his room that hissed angrily at him if he tried to sleep. A red mist crept into his room at night and it tasted like sage. 

_Interpret signs and catalogue_   
_A blackened tooth, a scarlet fog_   
_The walls are bad, black bottom kind_   
_They are the sick breath at my hind_   
_They are the sick breath at my hind_   
_They are the sick breath at my hind_   
_They are the sick breath gathering at my hind_

There was a Bible in every room at North Shore. It was the only book provided to each and every patient. Sitting there on the end of the bed, the only creature comfort in the stark, barren room. For the first few weeks, Rust held staring contests with his, acutely aware of his father's devout atheism. That book on the bed was one of the few things he focused his mind on, and it grew from a whisper to a roar.

On the fourth week, Rust realized that his mind was in overdrive with no fuel to run on. He cracked open the Bible for the same reason he used to make up stories about the stars; there was simply nothing else to do.

 _I hear stories from the chamber_  
 _How Christ was born into a manger_  
 _And like some ragged stranger_  
 _Died upon the cross_  
 _And might I say, it seems so fitting, in its way_  
 _He was a carpenter by trade_  
 _Or at least that's what I'm told_ _  
_

Everyone was supposed to find something of themselves in the Bible. Rust was no exception. As Jesus's fate was connoted with tragic irony, so too was Rust's. He had allowed his own crucifixion: his cross was his nature and every horrible result it had yielded. And he was nailed to it now, imprisoned by it.

But the Bible said that he was created in God's image, that he was not flawed, that he was the perfect result of what was intended for him. There was a grace in this world, and there was forgiveness, but he had to ask for it.

That wasn't about to happen.

_My good hand tattooed E.V.I.L. all across his brother's fist_   
_That filthy five, they did nothing to challenge or resist_ _  
_

For whom had he been the last four years if not the Devil? Crash was no son of God and, after a few months, he was not a stranger to himself. He fit in Rust's body perfectly.

Sometimes, after being Crash, Rust would come home at the end of the night and dry heave into the toilet because of the stuff he'd done. Some nights he'd have another drink and look in the mirror and smile to himself. Neither mattered; the next day, he stepped back into character and there was no resistance: Rust and Crash had become mutually exclusive.

It was true that everyone he'd known had done worse things than he had. But there was a big difference between him and Ginger and Miles and every man in the Iron Crusaders: those men didn't know any better.

 _In Heaven, His throne is made of gold_  
 _The ark of his Testament is stowed_  
 _A throne from which, I'm told,_  
 _All history does unfold_  
 _Down here it's made of wood and wire_  
 _And my body is on fire_  
 _And God is never far away_   _  
_

Rust understood that North Shore was his very own purgatory. His sins were being judged and he would either ascend to heaven or be damned. But Rust knew too much of life; he had seen innocence destroyed, evil prevail, things that put the seven deadly sins to shame. And he, as a human being, had no right to decide what his fate would be.

Rust had been born by fire but raised by the cold. It had seeped into every inch of him, and he was unable to breath it out, unable to rid himself of its bite. And when he realized what it had done to him, he'd stepped back into the fire. There was no such thing as warm and cool. It was always one extreme or another. And Rust only knew one thing for sure at North Shore: he was burning. It was constant.

_My kill hand is called E.V.I.L._   
_Wears a wedding band that's G.O.O.D._   
_Tis a long-suffering shackle_   
_Collaring all that rebel blood_

Maybe it was Rust's imagination, but he still thought the skin on his left hand ring finger looked different. Untanned, maybe. Empty, definitely. Crash had never worn Rust's wedding band. He had lost it, in fact, or pawned it some time during Year 2. Both the marriage and it's failure added weight to cross Rust bore; both were results of his nature.

His relationship with Claire had been at its best for the two years that Sophia had lived. And he'd been at his best for those same years. But when Rust thought of Claire, he realized that all they shared now was that they had created something that they couldn't protect.

One day, as Rust lay on his bed and tried to avoid looking directly at the puddle of water growing in the corner of his room, one of the nurses told him he had a visitor. There was a tone to her voice, a look in her eye like this was a special occasion.

"I think you'll be surprised", she said with a smile.

Rust could only think of a few people who it could be, and he didn't want to see any one of them. He stayed in his room and stared at the puddle until visiting hour had long gone.

_Into the mercy seat I climb_   
_My head is shaved, my head is wired_   
_And like a moth that tries_   
_To enter the bright eye_   
_So I go shuffling out of life_   
_Just to hide in death awhile_   
_And anyway I never lied_

He thought often of suicide, as though he was simply curious about it. But it felt redundant; he had already disappeared, lived apart from mankind in all its sincerity and optimism. And he was not prepared to do so permanently. As the weeks turned into months, as the therapy went on, as Rust found his feet again, he realized that he was not done. 

It was early morning on a late October day when he read it:  
 _"For we were all baptized by one Spirit so as to form one body... even so the body is not made up of one part but of many.”_  

He had been to hell and back. And the single benefit of this was that he knew himself, finally, thoroughly. He was not unique. He was one part of a whole. This Bible verse did not trigger this sense in him, but rather confirmed it. The question was what purpose he could possibly serve.

A few days later, the nurse stuck her head in his doorway again. Rust was staring at the ceiling, which was doing nothing unusual whatsoever.

"Rustin, you have a visitor. It's mandatory this time."

He was surprised to see Peterson in full uniform, looking completely out of place. Peterson nodded at him to sit, and he did.

"We're prepared to offer you full psych pension. We had no idea they'd kept you out there so long"

Rust leveled his gaze at Peterson, blinked slowly. 

"No."

"Why?" 

"Homicide. You got anything there?"

Peterson looked at him closely. "I'll have to check. You sure?"

_And the mercy seat is melting_   
_And I think my blood is boiling_   
_And in a way I'm spoiling_   
_All the fun by all this consequence and truth_   
_An eye for an eye_   
_And a tooth for a tooth_   
_And I've got nothing left to lose_   
_And I'm not afraid to die_

Two days later, Rust was told he had a phone call. Peterson's voice crackled down the line.

"How do you feel about Louisiana?"

And just like that, Rust was delivered.

He left the Bible on the bed where he'd found it. It had served its purpose. It was a book, written by man, and it had occupied him in his time of need. He had no further use for it.

_An eye for an eye_   
_And a truth for a truth_   
_And anyway I told the truth_   
_But I'm afraid I told a lie_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug/alcohol abuse.

_I tried so hard to keep myself from falling_  
 _Back to my bad old ways_  
 _And it chars my heart to always hear you calling_  
 _Calling for the good old days_  
 _'Cause there were no good old days_  
 _These are the good old days_  
 _\- The Libertines, 'The Good Old Days"_

They stumbled through Rust's front door just as the sun went down on the day they got Ledoux. 

Rust barely stopped as he kicked off his boots, slid his pants off, and pulled his grey, sweat-soaked shirt over his head, leaving a trail of clothes behind until he as good as collapsed face-down on his mattress. 

Marty headed for the shower. He stayed under the water for 45 minutes, hoping it would wash him clean of what he'd just done. Everyone has a breaking point, but Marty had begun to think that he was the exception to this rule. Now he knew what his was, and there was no undoing it.

But Rust's voice echoed in his head: _"Nah, fuck him."_ It mixed with the rhythm of the water and began to soothe him. If Rust could live with everything he'd done, Marty could live with this. When he thought about it, he wasn't really sorry anyway. _"Incapable of guilt,"_ Rust had called him. In this case, yeah.

When Marty finally emerged from the shower, Rust was curled up on the mattress, still and quiet, as though today just had been all in a day's work. Marty was careful not to make any noise as he went up to his own air mattress upstairs. He too fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

\-----

There was nothin' doing. They had to go to work the next day.

Rust was already awake, and he looked around wildly when Marty came downstairs in the morning. Marty yawned loudly. His whole body ached like he'd been hit by a truck. 

"Did you get any sleep?"

Rust sniffed, rubbed his nose, and said, "Sure, Marty", as though Marty had asked the dumbest question in the world. Marty ignored him, shrugged and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Marty drove, because of course he did. Rust was silent, which was normal, but today the silence felt loaded. Marty glanced at him a few times, but the expression on Rust's face was impenetrable. Marty let the silence have its way.

They both put on brave faces as they entered the station. To everyone there, they were heroes, returned from facing true darkness and vanquishing evil in the noblest way. Only they knew what had really happened, and only they would ever know. 

Despite the exhaustion and the strange, numb knowledge that this thing was over, Marty felt good. Great, in fact. He and Rust had prevailed, had succeeded unlike the dysfunctional team that they really were. 

He ignored the small shadow in his mind that told him that he may never get complete closure because of the way things had shaken out. Ledoux was dead. Lives were saved. That was all that mattered, and Marty stopped there.

For the first time ever, people at the station crowded around Rust. They were cautious, as though greeting a wild animal that they'd been assured was safe. Rust shook hands and nodded graciously, but did not seem enamored of his newfound fame. Having dutifully congratulated him, people backed away.

\-----

Just after lunch, and just before their debriefing with Quesada and Speece, Marty was heading to the bathroom when Rust quietly ducked out of the evidence room. Rust's face read "guilty", but he tried to push past Marty. Marty put his hand on his arm, stopping him, and Rust shrunk away.

"Hey. You alright?"

"Yeah fine, Marty."

"What were you in there for?"

"None of your fuckin' business."

"I'm your partner. It's my fuckin' business."

Rust stared him down, an exposed, raw nerve. There was something off in his eyes, a vagueness.

"Just leave it, alright?"

He yanked his arm out of Marty's grip, and for a second Marty thought Rust was going to take a swing at him. Instead, he stalked off down the hall.

Leave it to Rust to be on his period right after they solved the biggest case the area had seen in decades.

\-----

They'd reviewed their story over and over again on the way back to Rust's the evening before. They knew it backwards and forwards, to the point where they could finish each other's sentences. Marty saw the whole thing mapped out in his mind exactly the way Rust described it. But he still felt a twinge of nerves as they sat down in Quesada's strangely full office to debrief. People had packed in to hear this.

Quesada, predictably, was in a jovial mood.

"Welcome back, Cohle. How's your old man?"

"He's hanging on, sir. Thanks."

"Guess you got called back in a hurry."

"Yes sir."

"Well, we're all glad you guys canned this thing. I told Tuttle this morning, and he sends his thanks. Said he'd be sending over a little somethin' for you both later on. Alright, talk me through it."

The story sounded good, even to Marty, who knew it wasn't true. They did a good combined job of selling it. He also knew that his superiors were content to be told what they wanted to hear. 

It all went according to plan until they got to the "shootout." Marty was halfway through "we dove opposite ways into the highgrove", when he realized no one was looking at him. Everyone's attention had suddenly turned to Rust.

He looked over and saw what everyone but Rust knew. Blood was dripping from Rust's nose.

Marty paused, and something ominous unfurled within him as he recognized something that no one else saw. Marty had seen Crash, and he was having trouble un-seeing him. The skeletal hunger still seemed to hang on Rust's face, and in all the dark shit they'd encountered, Marty felt like the knowledge of Crash was a souvenir that he'd never wanted. 

Rust had noticed all eyes were on him and he was glancing around, looking for answers. As gently and politely as he could, Marty gestured to his own nose. Rust's hand came up to his face and came away red. Without any reaction, he stood.

"'scuse me, gentlemen."

And he left the room.

Speece shook his head as though this confirmed that Rust was - had always been - a lost cause, and there were judgments murmured around the room. Eventually all eyes turned back to Marty, and, though shaken, he continued like nothing had happened.

He finishing selling the story, and everyone was satisfied that they'd taken the most heroic course of action. There would be the shooting board to answer to, and the story to retell until everyone and their brother had heard it, but Marty felt that they were safe.

Rust was sitting at his desk when Marty got out of the debriefing, face clean, expressionless. Marty tried to catch his eye, but Rust studiously avoided it. Marty couldn't help but notice that he seemed jittery. Theories began to form in his head, but he couldn't address them here and now.

\-----

The guys wanted to take Marty out for drinks after work, wouldn't take no for an answer. The whole affair was an excuse for a party. Rust was not invited, not that he would want to come. Marty tossed him the car keys and told him he'd be home later. A strange look came over Rust's face; a peaceful relief. It triggered a small warning sign in Marty's brain. 

Drinks flowed freely that night and the tale of Ledoux's death was told and re-told. Marty had to defend Rust several times, much to his irritation. But even after a few rounds, that little niggling fear hadn't left Marty.

Marty stepped out of the bar and went over to the pay phone. Rust didn't pick up. Jaw set, Marty called again. And again. Finally, Rust's voice was on the other end, but it sounded slurred and unsteady. 

"'s Cohle."

"It's me, Marty." Silence on the other end. "Rust, you there?"

There was a long pause, and then "Yeah, here." The warning sign blinked brighter in Marty's head. 

"Are you alright? You don't sound alright."

"'m fine, Marty. 'm just fine."

Something wasn't right. It was time to go home.

"I'm comin' back. I'll be there soon, alright?"

There was a click and a dial tone, and that was it.

Marty couldn't get to Rust's fast enough.

Geraci drove, and Marty was torn between yelling at him to "drive faster, you fucker" and maintaining the illusion that everything was normal.

Finally he was at Rust's front door, and then finally he was inside. Rust was sat at the kitchen counter, head cradled in his arms on top of the counter. Marty rushed over and shook him. Nothing. Shook him harder, start shouting his name without even realizing it. 

Rust stirred and picked his head up to look at Marty. There was none of his usual sharpness; he looked like he didn't know what Marty was doing there or that anything was out of the ordinary. But then he glanced around with a kind of vague curiosity. Marty followed his gaze and saw. Half-empty bottle of Jameson. Empty bottle of Robitussin. A bottle of prescription pills.

"Come on now, get up."

He hoisted Rust from the stool, and Rust tried to help, but Marty did most of the work until he moved Rust over to one of his stupid-ass lawn chairs. He sat himself down opposite Rust and leaned forward as though Rust was a Rubik’s cube that he was determined to solve.

He'd seen Rust fucked up before - hell, that had happened the first time Rust had ever come over to his house. But this was different. This was Rust not in control, not really. Rust's eyes kept threatening to fall shut, head dipping as though it was too heavy to hold up anymore. He was staying conscious only as a courtesy to Marty, a concession to the unspoken deal that they had between them: in those quiet, fragile moments when Rust reached the end of himself, Marty didn't turn away and, in return, Rust would let him in. 

"What's going on, Rust? You gotta talk to me. This ain't alright."

"Mmm. It's just Crash. Let him alone; he'll subside when he catches on there's nothin' for him to do."

Marty was disturbed that his partner was talking about himself in such a disassociated way, and also perturbed that he thought about Crash along the same lines. But Rust was using Crash as an excuse, and Marty wasn't going to let him get away with it.

"No way. C'mon."

Rust pulled up his head to look at Marty, but it dipped too far back in the other direction and he ended up looking at Marty through mostly-closed eyes.

"Fuck, Marty. If Maggie hadn'ta kicked you out, you wouldn't even be here right now."

"Well, I am here, and we just been through a whole lotta shit, and you're fucked up and I'm losing patience."

Rust swayed forward again, and Marty was afraid for a moment he was going to fall out of his chair.

"I just keep thinkin', man."

"Yeah? What about?"

"What's gonna fill all those hours now?"

There was a long pause and Marty waited. 

"Fuck, I was the only thing Ledoux was good for."

Marty winced as his words, but he understood what Rust was trying to say.

"We'll move on. There will be more psychos for you to chase. You'll be able to smell their fear and everything."

"Nah, man, not like this one. This one had my name on it. Kept me clean, kept me on the straight and narrow. Close enough."

Marty nodded, thought he understood. 

"Shit, Marty: we couldn't have done this without Crash. We needed him. Those kids needed him. Do you know what that means?"

Rust suddenly looked at him straight, entreating Marty to understand, to say exactly the right thing. But Marty didn't really know how to respond. 

"Stay put, Rust. I'm gonna get you a glass of water."

Rust sighed and nodded heavily and Marty went to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Rust the whole time. When he returned, Rust grasped the glass, but didn't drink. He peered up at Marty.

"You think we got it right?"

Something in his voice made Marty's heart freeze. "What do you mean?"

"Ledoux. He talked about someone else. Mentioned a 'he.' Maybe we got one, but not the only one. Maybe not even the one."

Marty could see the rabbit hole; it was there, waiting for him, but he didn't want to go down it. He couldn't right now. The unanswered questions were too big. And he had to pull Rust back from jumping in.

"Listen, Rust: it's over. And even if you don't want to admit it right now, you're gonna be fine. We'll get another case. We'll keep busy. You'll pack Crash away again. You can't lose yourself to this, not at the end of it."

"Can't tell if we are at the end of it or not. Can't tell if I want to be."

Marty tried to steer them off this point.

"Drink some water."

Rust nodded and obeyed. 

"What'd you take from the evidence room earlier?"

"Jus' a little coke. They got some good shit in there, if you're ever so inclined. S'all free, too."

The faintest smile played across Rust's lips, and Marty saw Crash again. He tried to shake it off.

Rust put his empty water glass on the ground and it tipped over.

"Oh yeah - Maggie called for you. Said to call her back," he slurred.

A bubble of hope rose in Marty's chest. Maybe Maggie had heard. Maybe she'd changed her mind. Maybe he could go home again. 

But then Rust made a move like he wanted to get up, and Marty had to focus on the here and now, because Ledoux already had enough victims, and he wasn't allowed to have Rust too. Marty wouldn't let him.

"Where you going, Rust?"

"Over ...". Nowhere.

"Just stay here for a little bit. You ain't gotta go anywhere."

He wasn't sure if his words were getting through to Rust, but Rust sat back again, so he figured he was listening.

"You talked to Maggie like this?" Marty asked.

"Mmm nah. Hadn't kicked in yet. I told her you were alright. Think she was mad I wasn't at the bar with you."

"Mad at me or you?"

"Maybe both."

A small smile crossed Rust's face again, and this time it was his own. Marty thought about Maggie and the girls, safe and asleep. Thought about the guys at the bar, none of whom had been through this thing. Thought about that girl he'd carried yesterday, who would never be alright. He looked around at Rust's apartment, the most depressing shithole on earth, and knew that they both needed to get out of there. 

"Actually, fuck it, come on. I don't want you sitting around here tonight. Let's go." 

Marty guided Rust into the passenger seat of his car. Rust's hands fumbled with the seatbelt, so Marty buckled it for him. He disappeared back into the house and emerged with a bottle of water and a pack of cigarettes, both of which he tossed onto Rust's lap. Marty climbed into the driver's seat, started up the car, and drove. And drove. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care. 

Rust sat silent next to him but awake, alive, staring out the window, just thinking. This was what he needed, Marty told himself. Rust just needed to think through it. He drove until dawn. Rust fell asleep and Marty figured that was probably alright by now.


End file.
